


Cherish

by KaelaByte



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, no names mentioned, oh god this is sadder than it was supposed to be and nothing fucking happens, unnoficial ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelaByte/pseuds/KaelaByte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a man known throughout the world is looking for a safe place, where might he run?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherish

Fire crackled in the fireplace across the room, damp logs throwing out sparks as they hissed and spat. The mantle above it was cluttered with years of trinkets and memories, each one fading with time, dust obscuring any detail they might have once had. Cobwebs littered the bookshelves surrounding the dim fire, their corners cast in shadows so deep that a person's mind could imagine any number of creatures lurking in their depths. 

Centuries of knowledge filled this place among wrinkled, weather worn pages. Books with leather bindings so old their languages have long been forgotten. Jeweled tones layered atop of one another, each whispering their secrets into the stale air. If you closed your eyes and lay back you could almost hear them speaking to one another, sharing stories of all they had seen, from old grey-haired scholars to young children with sticky jam coating their fingers and leaving smudges in their inky pages. 

The old walls creaked and groaned, settling in for the winter that was fast approaching. The rooms overhead shifted and quivered, each movement all but imperceptible to any but the mice and insects living in the old mahogany walls. Years of bad weather and poor upkeep wore thin the wallpapers that covered nearly every wall. Here and there it had faded away completely, the hardwood paneling underneath scuffed and scratched beyond repair by tiny hands with too much imagination and too little to do with it.

The wind blew even more heavily, knocking yet another shingle off of the roof, a small drip in the ceiling of the kitchen changing from the steady tip, top of droplets in a bucket to a steady stream, almost upsetting the precariously balanced container. 

A new set of footprints disturbed the thick layer of dust. they ran past the pile of books with the nearly-full bucket, winding their way through the dining room where glazed eyes watched the comings and goings of the house from their posts on the wall. A lion, a meerkat, creatures both big and small surrounded the room, remnants of a time that had long since passed away. 

 

The footsteps meandered their way into the library, finally ending where a pair of brown loafers sat propped against a red and silver brocade footstool. Net to it sat a worn blue chair, the fabric thin and white near the edges of its arms where generations of people had ran the hands over the heavy fabric. Right now a pair of slim, thin fingered hands lay limply over the edges. Gold cufflinks shimmered in the light from the fire as their owner slept uneasily, brows furrowed and lips moving minutely as though he were praying softly to himself. 

Nearby a phone chimed, its cheery jingle sounding dissonant in the empty space that surrounded it. Still the man slept on. Hours passed and he did not wake, only shifting down into the chair more fully, one hand reaching around to clasp the small pendant that lay in his lap. The circular setting held the image of a young woman, the sepia toned print worn near the sides of the face where oils from the man's fingers had worn away the image. the wrinkled hands obscured the small engraving on the back, only a few letters remaining and the dates 1939-1944. Outside snow began to fall, a simple storm working its way into a blizzard as it ripped its way through the quiet streets outside.

Morning came slowly. The birds outside heralding in a watery, pale sunrise as the world slowly awoke. Inside the house there was no sound. The animals from ancient hunts still guarded their home. The books welcomed back their owner with pages smelling of time and memories. The figure in the chair did not stir. His hands stayed clasped around the silver pendant, never allowing it to slip and fall to the dusty ground. Around him the mice continued to scurry, the fire burned out slowly, only embers now glowing dimly. But all was silent.


End file.
